Scarlet Rhapsody
by Pimpernel Princess
Summary: A loving tribute combining The Scarlet Pimpernel, and the classic song Bohemian Rhapsody. Set during Percy's imprisonment in the book El Dorado, it is written from Percy's point of view. Sink me, but constructive criticsm is most welcome indeed!


**Scarlet Pimpernel + Bohemian Rhapsody = Scarlet Rhapsody**

**Author's note:** I own neither _The Scarlet Pimpernel_, nor "Bohemian Rhapsody". I was just trying to see if I could combine them into a loving tribute of both of these fantastic works. No infringement intended! This is written from Sir Percy Blakeny's point of view during his time in prison during the book _El Dorado_ by Baroness Orczy.

I lay in my prison, trying to divine whether this is the real life, or if this is just fantasy. These bars and walls would melt away, and I would see Marguerite standing there, waiting for me. I would find the strength to rise from this rough pallet, and, all grime and hurt gone, I would run to her, my love.

No, it is too real. Just as I slip into my dream, one of the guards gives me a hard kick and I jolt awake. They are depriving me of food, water, freedom, and even sleep. They intend to break me—I am too weak to move. I am caught in their landslide; there is no escape from this hard reality.

I open my eyes. I wish I had a little bit of sky to see. There is nothing to gaze at but the damp stone walls and a republican guard leering at me through the door of the cell. He doesn't even wear a cravat. I grunt in distaste. He must be some poor boy from a poor family, corrupted by the officials promising peace and money and food…

Food. What I wouldn't give for a stuffed pheasant, warm bread with fresh, yellow butter, some rich, red wine, or an apple or two. But I would up give all of the food in order to have my lady to share it with.

Right now, I am even in a sorrier state than the guard. I need no sympathy from him, however. I will make a plan, I always have a plan. They run through my head in fragments. If Ffoulkes, Dewhurst, and Ozzy make it back to head quarters then…No I have no way to get a message to them. Demn. If only I could get out of this cell. I could make a plan anywhere but here. Here, I am haunted by thoughts of the ghost of Marie Antoinette, poor queen, now dead. I tried so hard to save her, but could only save her son. I hope the dauphin is in safety; he has been treated so poorly by the republicans.

I curse my prison yet again. Only for the dead or the corrupted is it easy to come or go here. I will be neither. I know not whether to laugh because I am resisting, or weep because I am breaking. There are so many little highs, then little lows. Any way the wind goes does not truly matter to me. To me.

I begin to drift off the sleep again. The guard hits me with the butt of his gun. If only I had a weapon—I do, for my hands are not useless yet. I could find a way to kill this man: put a gun against his head, simply pull the trigger—he would be dead. No, I could never take a life. I never have, and hopefully never will. It is a matter of pride and honor among the league and I, that we kill none of the enemy. If we begin to take lives, the matter of saving _aristos_ will no longer be sport to us, and we dearly love this sport of ours.

Oh, Marguerite, our life had just begun. Now I've gone and thrown it all away. I forgive your brother for betraying me. I would forgive him a thousand times, if it would cheer you. I wish I could cheer you. I know you are nearly as broken as I am. Dear heart, I did not mean to make you cry. If I do not come through again tomorrow, I wish you to carry on, as if nothing really matters. It will make things easier for you when I die, my heart. I wish I could see you one last time before, though. It would make things easier: there are so many things I wish I could say to you. But things would be harder: I do not know how I would ever finish saying how much I love you. I need a lifetime for that. Like a poem half-completed, Margot.

It is too late; my time has come. I will never be able to complete my love poem to you now. I don't even know if I could think up a rhyme right now. Our time has been too short; we only just did begin to love again.

The cold sends shivers up my spine. There is no blanket. My body is aching all of the time from the cold, damp air. I should be used to it; I am British, after all. Alas, I have only my white linen shirt with the once-immaculate lace on the collar and cuffs, my wrinkled, stained cravat, my breeches that were once spotless cream, and a thin pair of stockings with gaping holes. They took even my boots, as if they believed that there were secret communications hidden in the soles. So _cliché_, I think. You can imagine the state of my clothes now, Margot. My mother, mad though she was, would be so disappointed in me.

I must say goodbye to everybody. I have got to go. I have to leave them all behind to face the truth. I will not be stronger than this. I need rest, and good food, and clean garments. I think about surrendering for a moment. I would be guillotined. No doubt, the whole league would not be able to keep Margot away from my execution. I could not bear to die with her watching, helpless at the foot of the _guillotine_.

Marguerite, oh, I do not want to die. You are worth living for. I wish I was with you in England, or anywhere in the world but here in this dark cell. Perhaps it had been better if I had not been born at all. You would be more happy than you are now—you would not be crying over me. Oh, how I wish I could be there to dry your tears with my fingers. Or with my lips.

Chauvelin enters the guard room outside of my cell, followed by Heron. The guard straightens up and salutes him. Perhaps I do not have much strength left, but I have enough to taunt Chauvelin. As I sit up with my back leaning against the wall, I set my face into the indolent, lazy expression of my foppish self.

"Ha," Chauvelin begins, gloating in his low, grating voice, "I only see a silhouette of the man that you once were, Blakeny."

I sit up straighter, and make my voice light and carefree. Marguerite is not the only one who is able to act. "Sink me, Shoo-vay-lin, would you care to dance? Go on, do the bandango, or whatever that new Spanish dance is called. Demme if I can remember the name of it."

"Thunderbolts and lightning!" Chauvelin exclaims, then thinks for a moment. "Perhaps the way to finish you would be to chain you to the top of the _Bastile_ during a thunderstorm. That not quick enough of an execution, though. The guillotine would be more frightening."

"Me?" I say, as if I am personally affronted. "You wish to execute me? Why chaining me outside during a lightning storm would be as barbaric as the Italians—Galileo, Figaro, Piccolo, Magnifica and all those chaps. I say, why not test it on this poor boy," I gesture to the guard, who looked utterly terrified. Poor boy indeed. "He is but a poor boy from a poor family. You had better spare him his life from this monstrosity."

"Blakeny, will you stop talking nonsense?"

"I apologize, Chambertin," I say with mock sincerity. "My brain is too easy come, easy go these days. This has been a lovely meeting, but will you let me go?"

Chauvelin sputters and curses. "No, we will not let you go. No! My country has suffered much from your hands. You have kept the cursed aristos from getting what they deserve for torturing the peasants for centuries. No, we will not let you go, Blakeny!"

With that, Chauvelin storms out, Heron trailing behind, trying not to increase Chauvelin's wrath. I know I will be treated even more harshly after this exchange, but it was so good for me to rile Chauvelin.

Alas, what has the devil put aside for me? I must think of a way to conquer this. I sigh as I lay back down on the pallet. I need a little rest after riling Chauvelin, but I am so much the better for it. My eyes close, I am drifting off to sleep. I feel a glob of wetness on my face. I wipe my face on my sleeve, wishing for a handkerchief. Ugh. That dirty little bantam of a guard has spit in my eye. He's leering at me now. I swear at him in English, trying to make it appear that I am trying to complement his lovely tri-colored sash, or his wooden sabots that are at the height of French fashion these days.

So they think they can stone me and spit in my eye. So they can. But Marguerite will not love me and leave me to die. Oh, dear heart, I cannot do this to you, dear heart. I just need to get right out of here. I long to see her in the open air, to kiss her, to let her know that it will all come out right. For her, I will defy them.

Heron comes back to speak with the guard in cloaked tones. I think I am to be moved from my cell. Ha! Nothing really matters, anyone can see. Nothing really matters, to me.

Because now the wind is blowing in my direction…

**~Fin~**


End file.
